


you'll just make it rain anyway

by reciprocity



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Domestic Fluff, Fighting & Making Up (Mostly Making Up), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocity/pseuds/reciprocity
Summary: Living with the love of your life doesn't come without its hitches, Viktor is aware.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written vaguely for the prompt 'communication' for Victuuri Week, and a day late at that but you know how these things go.

It’s not exactly their first fight.

Between a (mostly) professional relationship on the ice, and living together as soon-to-be husbands, it would be impossible for it to be. Viktor and Yuuri have endured more than their share of disagreements, from petty tiffs over who was supposed to pick up groceries that week, to the more serious rows that had taken place (thankfully) largely at the beginning of their romance.

Viktor is well-versed in the particular hunch of Yuuri’s shoulders that means he is _upset_ with Viktor. And he is slowly, stutteringly, getting better at reversing these moods, though it usually helps when Viktor _knows_ what it is that caused the problem in the first place.

It wasn’t a specific, traceable incident this time, though. Rather it had been a short series of incidents, each piling on top of the last like snow on a poorly weighted roof, and all culminating in the inevitable collapse of Viktor grabbing Yuuri’s shoulder one day after practice and asking (in a tone perhaps a tad less patient than he had intended) _“What’s wrong now?”_ and Yuuri responding _“Just give me space, Viktor,”_ gaze and tone sharp enough to make Viktor release him out of sheer surprise.

So. It’s not that it’s their first fight, or even anywhere near their worst, really.

It’s moreso that almost every one of their disagreements prior had ended shortly after they had begun, whether it be with Viktor breaking and begging mercy, or Yuuri shutting Viktor up with his own insistent and persuasive mouth, but it’s been _two days_ now since Yuuri touched Viktor in a way less perfunctory than desirous.

The absence leaves Viktor feeling cold and hollow, made worse by the way Yuuri barely seems to even notice it. He wears his contempt like a second skin, shooting Viktor chilled looks over the ice at practice, and practically radiating malcontent as he moves about their shared apartment.

Which leaves Viktor where he is now, perched on a stool pulled up to the kitchen counter, ostensibly scrolling through his text messages, while actually stealing glances at his fiancé, who is currently curled up at one corner of Viktor’s couch.

Makkachin is sprawled between his legs, head in lap, and Yuuri’s hand runs absently through her fur as he stares down at his own phone. Viktor resolutely does _not_ feel jealous of his _dog_ , and sniffs disdainfully, going back to Chris’ most recent text.

It’s on the third attempted read that Viktor realizes his addled brain is not currently capable of parsing his best friend’s nonsense. Heaving a loud sigh, he drops his phone onto the counter, causing, well— more of a clatter than he had intended for it to, honestly.

It’s enough to draw Yuuri’s attention, and Viktor meets his eye for one brief moment: Yuuri’s lips part like he’s about to ask a question, before they abruptly resolve themselves back into a thin line. Yuuri turns his attention back to his phone, and Viktor pushes down on the irritation and faint hopefulness tightening up his throat.

Viktor stands and announces to the room at large, “I’m going to fix dinner.”

Yuuri murmurs some vague assent, eyes still glued to his screen, and Viktor deflates a bit. He makes his way into the kitchen, muttering under his breath, and sighs when he takes in the mess before him.

For all of Yuuri’s scolding, neither of the two of them were much good at keeping up a tidy household. Viktor insisted there was a method to the chaos, but Yuuri only ever rolled his eyes, not buying it for a second.

The thought strikes Viktor and makes him ache anew, the sense memory of pressing Yuuri against the counter’s edge and kissing him until he forgot his gripe momentarily overwhelming. 

“I’m going to shower.” Yuuri’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. Viktor nods absently, eyes cutting to the side to watch Yuuri walk to the master bedroom.

Makkachin pads over a moment later, nosing hopefully into Viktor’s palm. “Traitor,” Viktor grumbles, but obliges her by digging his nails into the spot behind her ear anyway. He can hardly blame her for abandoning him when he knows exactly how inviting Yuuri’s cuddles can be.

Viktor busies himself with cleaning up the counter, moving on autopilot as his mind wanders. It was hard not to think about Yuuri when he was in the shower and naked and _wet_ only a few dozen feet away. It _had_ been two days, and Viktor wasn't used to being denied— well, anything at all, really.

Viktor frowns. He had lived alone for years before, had grown accustomed to his own company and his own space. It shouldn’t feel so jarringly empty now, not when Yuuri had only moved in less than two months ago.

Viktor shakes himself, reminding himself of the anger and annoyance their current fight had inspired.

A fight Viktor realizes he is having the faintest trouble remembering all that well. It seems a lifetime ago, and Viktor can’t quite summon up the ire he had felt about it then now. It feels much less important than the pressing ache of Yuuri’s absence at his side, his laughter bouncing off the kitchen walls, and his _lips_ , warm and soft and always so pliant for him—

Makkachin lets out a sharp bark behind him. The sound makes Viktor jump, and when he turns to face his dog, she is staring at him with a look that feels somehow pointed. Viktor huffs and turns back to his task, pulling ingredients out of the freezer.

Out of his peripherals, he spies a unopened carton of ice cream, Viktor’s favorite flavor. He pulls it out and frowns at it, certain he had run out the week prior and yet to replace it.

It occurs to him that Yuuri must have picked it up. He hadn’t come straight home from practice the evening before, and Viktor figures he must’ve stopped by the store then, if the fresh fruit on the counter this morning was anything to go by.

That doesn’t answer _why_ Yuuri had gotten it, though. Viktor imagines Yuuri squinting at the label written in cyrillic, undoubtedly going by the picture more than the words printed there. Searching it out just for him, despite the fact he had come home and not spoken a single word to Viktor the rest of the night. 

_Oh_ , Viktor thinks, stupidly. When he blinks, he finds his vision has gone blurry, his throat painfully tight. He stares at the carton in his hands for a long second before carefully putting it back and closing the freezer door.

Drawing in a deep breath, he tries to blink away the spots in his vision, before belatedly realizing _why_ his vision has gone hazy. Viktor glances at Makkachin through a watery gaze; she gives an encouraging bark, and licks at his hand.

Viktor nods decisively, and all but runs to the bedroom door.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor calls once he gets there, urgency coloring his tone. He can’t hear the shower on any more, so Yuuri must already be out. He knocks, twice, on the door, and doesn’t bother waiting for a response before letting himself in.

He finds Yuuri standing in the middle of the room half-dressed, baggy sweats swung low on his hips, a clean shirt hanging loosely from his hands.

“Viktor, what—” His expression goes from blank to rigid to bemused as he takes in Viktor’s own appearance. Viktor does not particularly want to know what he must look like, tears catching on his eyelashes and hot embarrassment and desperation flushing his skin.

Viktor doesn’t think as he launches himself at Yuuri, cinching his arms around the smaller man’s shoulders and holding on tight.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he croons into Yuuri’s neck, mournful. “ _I’m sorry_.”

Yuuri makes a small noise in the back of his throat. The t-shirt falls somewhere between their feet, and Yuuri’s arm are around Viktor in a moment, tentative but _there_. Viktor lets himself breathe for what feels like the first time in weeks.

“What, Viktor,” Yuuri insists after a quiet minute. His voice hasn’t quite lost the edge to it, and Viktor is infinitely, infinitely grateful that he has the most compassionate boyfriend in the world, to comfort Viktor when he had fucked up so badly and not even apologized for it yet.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, not daring to even lift his head. His lips drag slightly over Yuuri’s skin, and he feels Yuuri’s breathing stutter at the sensation.

“I’m sorry for everything, for forgetting our plans, and for embarrassing you at practice.” Viktor goes on, sniffling and pressing his face further into the skin of Yuuri’s throat. “I’m sorry, _lyubimiy_ , I am, it’s just, I’m new at— this.” Viktor almost wants to laugh, unused to his own naivety, the helpless feeling clawing at his chest. “I don’t know… I don’t know how to _fix_ it, but I’m _trying_ —”

Viktor’s tone is veering into plaintive when Yuuri cuts him short by suddenly withdrawing, hands pushing at Viktor’s shoulders to put some space between them.

When Viktor looks up, he catches Yuuri’s eyes, still unreadable, but open and clear in a way they haven’t been these past few days. It’s enough for Viktor to find no small amount of solace in.

“Viktor.” Yuuri’s voice comes out the slightest bit unsteady. He swallows, tries again. “ _Viktor_ , you’re not—” He huffs, frustrated but, Viktor thinks, buoyantly, not at him. “I’m new at this, too,” he says, as if Viktor might have forgotten. “You don’t have to fix anything, nothing's _broken_.”

Viktor’s throat closes up on nothing, and he really can’t help the fresh wave of tears spilling over now. Yuuri makes a noise distantly related to a laugh, and uses the pad of his thumb to brush the wetness from Viktor’s cheek. He immediately leans into the touch, desperate for this small affection like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Viktor opens his eyes and blinks at Yuuri, looking small and hunched in on himself. He meets Viktor’s eyes slowly, hesitant but resilient all the same. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh, and- and I should’ve talked to you. It’s not like you can read my mind.” His lip curls upward at the end, not a trace of amusement on his features. “I forgive you,” Yuuri finishes, fingers drifting over Viktor’s jaw.

Viktor clamps down on the crushing relief rising up in his chest, determined not to cry any more, today at least. He settles instead for pressing a kiss to the inside of Yuuri’s wrist, gaze steadfast on Yuuri’s. “I forgive you, too, _luchik_.”

When Yuuri pulls him back into his arms, Viktor goes more than willingly, molding himself to Yuuri’s front.

After a while, Yuuri draws away, but only far enough to pull Viktor gently down onto the bed beside them. Viktor curls around Yuuri there, thighs draped across his lap and face tucked firmly under Yuuri’s jaw. He breathes in deep there, re-memorizing the scent of him, caught up in Yuuri’s long fingers stroking at the back of his neck, enough so that he almost misses Yuuri’s next words.

“It’s actually kind of nice, you know.”

Viktor hums, prompting.

“Just-” And here Yuuri huffs a breath of quiet amusement. “Just knowing I’m not the only one who’s a mess here.”

Viktor pulls his head up, faux hurt drawn across his elegant features. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he whines, and listens to Yuuri’s full, beautiful laugh with something like the sun blooming over in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor is aware of the disadvantages of living in with the love of your life (and more than aware of the advantages, too).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An incidental retelling of the latter half of chapter one because I really wanted to write Yuuri angrily fingering Viktor and had no other real excuse to do it. Il n'y a rien à faire. Enjoy!

Yuuri’s wrist twists hard and cruel, fingers pointed and curled at exactly the right angle to nail Viktor’s sweet spot on every tiny thrust forward. Viktor whines at the feeling, his own fingers gone white against his grip on the edge of the kitchen counter.

A particularly harsh press forward drags a moan from Viktor’s throat, grip buckling slightly as he sways forward and rests on his forearms instead.

Viktor can’t recall the exact series of events leading up to this, Yuuri determined and impatient with three fingers up Viktor’s ass, his other hand perched bruisingly hard on his bared hip. He doesn’t know how they’d gone from what they were this morning— Yuuri silent and stiff-shouldered, tensing up as Viktor had unthinkingly brushes a kiss against his cheek before he left the apartment— to Yuuri from a few minutes ago, wordlessly pressing Viktor against the refrigerator the second he had walked back in the door; impatient and purposeful as he had tugged open the zip of Viktor’s slacks.

Then again, Viktor is long used to losing the finer points of memory when Yuuri is all hot, desperate edges against him, asking Viktor for anything; Viktor knows, had known right the start, that he always will give in, anything, _anything_ , if Yuuri is the one asking.

He’d lost the majority of his clothing at some point, stripped down to only his undershirt, hiked up high over the arch of his back; Yuuri is still fully clothed behind him, and something about the fact of that, the calm, put-togetherness of his appearance, while Viktor bends himself over, ass presented so prettily up in the air entirely for Yuuri’s taking, makes him burn even hotter, an itch deep in his skin.

He braces himself against the counter under his elbows, hips jerking back, hard, fucking himself deeper than Yuuri’s controlled motions would otherwise allow.

Yuuri makes a small, displeased noise at that, fingers almost withdrawing entirely.

“ _Prosti_ ,” Viktor bites out, instinctive more than anything. He doesn’t bother trying to follow Yuuri back, knows it will only push Yuuri further away in the end.  


The grip on his hip loosens suddenly, and he feels it draw a small, soothing circle against his skin, before Yuuri is fucking into him again, less forgiving than before even somehow, brutal and relentless against his prostate.

Viktor keens, cock flush and dripping between his thighs, untouched but close anyway. He doesn’t dare move his hands to touch himself, knows Yuuri will decide when it’s time for that. He’s content to let Yuuri take care of him for now, needy and aching for it after a full day of punishing anger from his fiancé over an argument his addled brain can no longer fully remember the cause of.

“Yuuri, _Yuu_ -ri, _god_ ,” he finds himself babbling, syllables strung out and reedier than he would like. Yuuri hums, continuing the motions of both hands but nothing more, two singular points of opposing pressure.  


"Close already, _Vitenka_?” Yuuri asks, tone mistakably impartial. He’s playing _unfair_ , Viktor thinks, hips stuttering forward at the way the diminutive rolls off of Yuuri’s tongue.

He nods in answer, forehead resting against the cool granite now. “Yes,” he says, on the chance Yuuri had wanted a verbal answer as well. And then: “ _Da, lyubimiy_ , _please_.” He can’t help the pleading in his tone.

Yuuri slows his thrusting, becoming— tender, almost. “Good,” he murmurs, so soft Viktor might have missed it. “You’re good to me, スイートハート.”

And then Yuuri is withdrawing completely, except for the hand on his waist, which tightens again and used as leverage to spin Viktor around. He blinks, dazed, up at Yuuri, who for all of his _sounding_  put-together in the time since Viktor came home, Viktor is delighted to discover _looks_ much more debauched, with an obvious flush painting his cheeks beautifully, skin glistening with sweat that Viktor would give anything to taste. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his glance downwards, eyes catching and sticking on the not insignificant bulge at Yuuri’s crotch.

He doesn’t move on his own, though, waits as patiently as he possibly can for Yuuri to decide what comes next.

It doesn’t take long— Yuuri steps forward, perfectly between Viktor’s spread legs, like he belongs there. He looks something close to unsure, for half a moment, before he’s swaying forward and up. Viktor’s lips part, expecting a kiss, but Yuuri only presses their foreheads together instead, eyes intent and searching.

“I—” he starts, stops himself. Viktor waits. He tries again. “I’m not angry with you, Vitya.”  


Viktor makes a small, inquisitive noise, but doesn’t interrupt. Yuuri sighs, pulling back barely an inch. The sensation of Yuuri so _close_  but not actually touching is almost more palpable than the previous contact itself. He meets Viktor’s eyes, and the look there is— enough. It’s enough for Viktor to know what Yuuri is telling him, not quite an apology but something close. A promise to _talk,_ later, after.

Yuuri must see a clear enough answer in Viktor’s gaze too, because he does kiss him then; short and sweet and chaste. Viktor kisses back, watching Yuuri through half-lidded eyes, and his heart feels sore in his chest, with sudden love and gratitude. To Yuuri. For Yuuri.

Yuuri draws back, gaze gone thoughtful, though the fondness remains in the corners of his eyes, playing at the edge of his bowed lips.

When he orders Viktor to _turn around_  once more, Viktor doesn’t hesitate a moment to comply. When slick fingers find their way quickly and easily into Viktor’s hole, he doesn’t flinch, though the sudden return has him moaning lowly into his clenched fist.

When Yuuri’s hand wraps surely around his ignored, still-hard cock, he cries out, and fucks himself hard back onto Yuuri’s hand, then down into his fist. Yuuri lets him this time.

Yuuri coos soft praise, half in accented Russian, equally quartered in English and Japanese that Viktor has mostly learned through moments like these. When Yuuri tells him, in firm, steady English, “Come for me, _Vitya_ ,” Viktor does, come hitting the cupboard and running down onto the floor between his legs. Yuuri strokes him through, keeps fucking him both ways until he is a whining, drooling mess, begging Yuuri to stop.

He does, but not without telling Viktor in no uncertain terms to _stay still_. Viktor, despite his shaking knees, does as he is told, and is rewarded with the unmistakable sound of a waistband being pulled down, snapping back against Yuuri’s thighs. Viktor doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look, but it’s enough for him to imagine it, Yuuri fisting himself as he takes in Viktor’s stretched-out hole, his spent, soft cock hanging between his legs.

Yuuri grunts, a few moments later, and Viktor feels the warm splash of his finish against the small of his back. He idly wonders if any had gotten on his shirt. He doesn’t really care either way.

He feels the press of Yuuri’s lips to the back of his neck, and then a soft, mumbled, “Alright, Viktor, you can move,” against his skin.

He does, happily, turning immediately and wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s waist when he does, nuzzling into Yuuri’s sweat-slicked hair.

They don’t say anything for a while, but Yuuri lets Viktor hold him in the quiet few minutes of their shared afterglow, and that, for now, is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a re-up from a few days ago since AO3 published the unbeta'd draft instead of this version, sorry for double-posting/any confusion that might've caused.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated as ever!


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